


Hell on Tarmac

by poetryortruth



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Multiple Endings, Tarmac Hell, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:53:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetryortruth/pseuds/poetryortruth
Summary: “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that’s the whole of it.”The exchange from a lifetime ago starts repeating in my head again.





	Hell on Tarmac

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Hell on Tarmac](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10050452) by [BakerSt233B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerSt233B/pseuds/BakerSt233B). 



> So, this is my first translation work. I hope it's comprehensible :)

“To the very best of times, John.”

Sherlock has extended his right hand, his left hand grasping the leather glove.

I don’t dare to look into Sherlock’s eyes--those emerald eyes which are set off perfectly by the blue of the sky. The emotions behind them,whatever kind, would be too much for me. But the soldier inside me commands me to do so.” This is your last chance,” he says, “come on, for Sherlock, just look into his eyes.”

Too many things in his eyes that I dare not interpret now. Too many. How I wish I had my own mind palace to save forever THE way he looks at me at this very moment. Then, when I’m spending the rest of my life without him, I would have something to chew over, to cherish, to remember.

Lost in his gaze, I feel unable to move. Fortunately Sherlock’s hand remains extended, waiting in silence and patience.

Selfishly, I wish this “last time” could never end, even if there’s nothing we can do, even if I can think of nothing to say, at least he’s standing in front of me, ALIVE. I even came up with some sort of fantasy, that is, if I would never take his hand, he would wait till forever, the plane would never take off and he would stay.

I almost did it. 

Sherlock seems to have seen right through me, he always does. Bastard.

I can’t remember exactly how it felt when he held my hand for the first time-- on the 30th January 2010,in front of 221B Baker Street, but I’ll never forget how it feels now: warm, firm, desperate, with a slight tremor (maybe it’s from him, or me, I seem to have lost my sensation).

Then he leaves. Clenching my teeth, I force myself to look at the runway. I can’t bear to look at him again. He looks too lonely.

The plane starts moving.

“I lost Sherlock.”

I feel all overwhelmed by the thought the second the plane leaves the ground.

Mary steps closer and takes my arm.

“He did this for us,” says she, “ for the vow he made on our wedding day.”

I nod my head stiffly, still staring at the plane which is slowing fading away. I don’t want to say anything.

The deadly bullet wound on his chest hasn’t completely healed. Owing to that dramatic escape from the hospital window, he still needs morphine from time to time to cope with unexpected severe pain.

The last time he felt that pain, we were on Mycroft’s helicopter. No medical staff around, only secret service. All I could do was looking at his pale face, listening to him moaning in pain, feeling absolutely helpless. I should have carried the morphine with me.

I really should have carried the morphine with me.

 

 

Feeling my left hand in Mary’s right, I’m trying my best not to tremble.

Sherlock shot someone. He didn’t need to, but he did, for Mary--or, if I’m honest to myself, for me.

He seemed to think that I wouldn’t know he’s going for a suicide mission if he never talked about it. I know Mycorft will intervene for sure, even put himself in harm’s way to save his own brother’s life. If no one knows what will happen in six months, like he said, then will Sherlock ever come home safe and sound?

It’s not just me who has lost Sherlock, maybe the whole world has too. The most arrogant, most annoying, also the ...the best man I’ve ever known.

But what am I doing here? The Doctor John Watson who has been saved by him countless times, just standing here, doing nothing more than watching the plane becoming a small black dot in the distance. It reminds me of his pupils and the way he looked into my eyes less than 4 minutes ago.

“He loves you.”

All of a sudden, a voice in my head says “John Watson, Sherlock loves you.”

Perhaps I knew that all along, just too afraid to admit it. It’s only now, when I’m at my most vulnerable, that those words finally break free and occupy my entire mind in an instant. He had loved me to the point where he could shot someone without hesitation (though it’s something I’ve done before) and chose to face all the consequences alone.

But what am I doing here?

“John?” When that small black dot is out of sight, Mary’s hand lightly squeezes mine, hinting that it’s time to leave. But I just remain there motionless.

What the hell am I doing here?

Standing here, unharmed. Taking his suffering for granted. Enjoying the so-called “peaceful” life he’s sacrificed himself for. My left hand’s still in Mary’s right hand-- the same hand which gave Sherlock the gunshot wound, the same hand which held the gun in the Leinster Gardens, unhesitatingly aiming at me in the dark.

Maybe she does love me, like she said. Maybe. That kind of love with which she could shoot my very best friend without hesitation. It suddenly strikes me how obvious Sherlock’s lie was. How could he make me believe Mary’s gunshot, in fact, saved his life-- after I had seen him flatline with my own eyes, after the doctors had all gave up, waiting for BD to confirm the death? And how am I supposed to love Mary like before, after I saw her aiming her silencer at me??

Our relationship has been filled with lies and deceptions since the very beginning. I’m not even sure whether there really is any kind of “relationship” between us. This marriage is based on the mutual attraction between me and Mary Morstan. Ironically, my Mary Morstan never existed. I don’t have the faintest idea who the woman holding my hand is. The woman I love, is the woman who I thought she was. But she isn’t. And she never will be. That’s where the problem lies.

I forgave her only because I needed to, at least temporarily. I don’t even know whether A.G.R.A. is her real name. I don’t even know her name.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that’s the whole of it.”

The exchange from a lifetime ago starts repeating in my head again.

 

 

 

It felt like a dream to me.

All I can remember now is the obvious relief on Mycroft’s normally placid face. Honestly speaking, we had never been so willing to see Moriarty’s face, nor so excited at a potential terrorist attack, if it could make Sherlock stay.

“The plane is coming back.” Mycroft put down the phone, waving his black umbrella with delight, “Time to bring him home, Dr. Watson.”

He then gave me a meaningful look which said:”Hope you’ve made your decision.”

 

 

The plane is now in sight, which means I still have a chance to set everything right.

Too many apologies left unsaid. Too many thanks left unspoken. Too many questions left unasked.

As the plane gets closer, I start imagining asking him all those questions I’ve always wanted to ask- why did he fake his death in the first place, what made him come back to life after the flatline and what exactly was that “something he’s meant to say always and never has”- “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name” was something I never believed, not for a second.

I must be the luckiest man in the world. God has already given me so many chances before. Now Sherlock is giving me the THIRD miracle.

When he stands in front of me again, my first sentence will definitely be:

“I love you too.”

But you know, miracles don’t happen everyday. 

Chances are gone before you know it.

 

 

I feel so alive when the plane finally lands. Messy as my life is, at least I’m no longer the man who’s lost everything except regrets.

When the plane door opens, Mycroft almost immediately gets aboard, unable to contain his delight. Mary and I at his heels.

 

 

Sherlock is sitting quietly on his seat, his head bowed. No doubt he told the crew to leave him alone. Very Sherlockian indeed.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft and I try to wake him up- maybe he’s deep in his mind palace again.

No response.

I don’t even have time to share a worried look with Mycroft.

“Sherlock!!!!” 

A sudden, horrible fear strikes me. My hands are freezing and my body is shaking all over. I almost kneel in front of him, not caring whether my cold and sticky hands would make him uncomfortable, plucking up courage to take his pulse.

The world is too quiet. All I can hear is my own heartbeats.

“You are the one alive” , said your own heartbeats.

“Only you.”

 

 

Miracles wouldn’t happen everyday.

The chance was gone before you knew it.

 

 

Mycroft picks up a piece of paper under his seat-- drug names written all over it. It’s a list of drugs he’s taken. He must have overdosed before getting in the plane. The return flight took 5 minutes at most. He just couldn’t survive the severe overdose for longer than that.

On the leather armrest remain several nail marks. I can’t even bear to think about his pain. 

His phone screen hasn’t gone black and something on the screen takes my breath away:

“THE PERSONAL BLOG OF Dr. John H. Watson  
29th January  
A strange meeting”

 

 

No one says anything. Listening to my own heartbeats in silence, I grasp his hand with one hand and caress his hair with another. I feel dead inside.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

I uttered those words without even realizing it, my trembling lips pressed on his pulse.

But his pulse doesn’t respond to my confession.

Some tears are streaming down my face and some crying sounds break the silence. I don’t know where they all come from.

 

 

1st Ending- Heaven

 

It was the second time John attended Sherlock’s funeral.

At the exact same place where the previous gravestone stood. It felt all too strange to him. It reminded him of the last time he stood there begging for a miracle and how Sherlock popped up out of nowhere and the way he said “I heard you”.

It was also the second time he heard eulogies for Sherlock, the second time he watched the coffin being slowly put into the grave - except that it was not empty this time. He saw his Sherlock in the coffin with his own eyes. He waited till he was left alone and touched the familiar gravestone the second time, secretly placing a kiss on that cold marble stone.

John divorced Mary after the child’s birth. It’s hard to say who came up with the idea first. They both knew the relationship couldn’t go any further. John gave all his properties to Mary and the child.

The very last time he paid a visit to Sherlock, he left the graveyard penniless.

A week later, Lestrade received one text from John.

“Barts’ roof. Please help. JW”

That day, London was grey as usual and it drizzled. 

That day, people working at Barts heard something like a gunshot. But there wasn’t anything wrong so nobody paid attention.

Near the edge of the roof quietly lay John, his right hand holding the Browning which should have accomplished its mission much earlier.

 

 

When Lestrade recovered from grief and began to deal with the situation, he suddenly remembered that time, during the case of the blind banker, how Detective Inspector Dimmock complained to him about Sherlock’s deductions with both admiration and jealousy.

“Sherlock, you pompous genius. Left-handers shoot themselves with their right hand too. If you don’t believe me, just look at your John.”

“You two bastards.”

 

 

John’s funeral didn’t cause too much trouble. It turned out that he had arranged everything.

Even the gravestone had been ordered in advance.

Mycroft came to the same cemetery two weeks after Sherlock’s funeral. This time, for another man.

There stood two gravestones with the same materiel and style, shoulder to shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes & John H. Watson

What a strange meeting.

 

 

 

 

2nd Ending-- Home

 

Some tears are streaming down my face and some crying sounds break the silence. I don’t know where they all come from.

The crying sound was a bit distorted by some electronic devices but the voice told immaturity and chagrin.

“Shh, Watson, it’s OK now.”

When John came to himself, he blinked (he felt a teardrop on his face) and realized the sound was from the baby monitor.

“Oh shit!” John swung his legs off the sofa, looking for his slippers hurriedly, intending to rush to his own bedroom on the third floor. The crying sounds from the baby monitor weakened, followed by an incredibly soft voice--

“It’s all right, Rosie. It’s just a bad dream right? Don’t cry, sweetie. You might wake your Daddy up. He’s having a bad dream too.”

John found it hard not to be jealous of his own daughter.

Rosie seemed to agree with Sherlock though. The crying sounds gradually weakened and John could hear footsteps on the staircase. Sherlock brought Rosie downstairs. The little one was resting on his shoulder and had fallen asleep again. Sherlock then gently put Rosie into the cradle in the sitting-room and turned to face John. His hair was still in a mess, tears still visible.

John rubbed his eyes with embarrassment, knowing that it was unlikely to hide his tears from Sherlock.

“Oh do you need a baby monitor too?” said Sherlock teasingly, while sitting on the sofa besides him.

“Never knew you were so good at this sort of thing.” John tried to change the topic.

“She didn’t need to eat or drink and I just changed her nappies an hour ago. So there’s only one reason for the crying. Nightmare, obviously. Usually patting on the back and kissing on her cheeks would do the trick.” Sherlock said to himself, not noticing John’s flushing ears.

“Yeah, sure.” John tried to stand up but his head was spinning. He had to grab Sherlock’s shoulders to maintain his balance. Sherlock took hold of his arms intimately, “if you’d like a cup of tea, it’s on the coffee table.”

“Oh, thanks. I must look terrible.” John sat back on the sofa and covered the face with his hands, trying to relieve the headache.

The next second, John felt a pair of arms wrapping around him. A heart-warming hug. From Sherlock.

\---“It’s okay now, John.”

“I don’t know what you dreamed about, possibly about me, judging by the way you cried out my name...”

“Care to elaborate?”

\---“I dreamed about the day... the day you left....”

\---“Tarmac?”

\---”Yes. I was so stupid. I almost lost you... What did I do to you, Sherlock. I’m so so sorry.”

\---”So...in your dream, I died on that plane?”

\---”It’s not exaggerating. You did almost die there. And I let it all happen... Let alone all those unforgivable things I did later...”

”Guess I’ll blame myself for that forever.”

\---”I never blamed you, John.”

 

\---”Did you hear anything else?”

\---”Eh...something I couldn’t figure out. I’m not sure whether...”

\---”I love you too, Sherlock. That’s all I wanted to say in my dream. I can’t believe I never said those words out loud before, after you had expressed the same thing with your actions so many times.”

\---”Have I?”

\---”Oh for god’s sake, you compete dick-head.”

 

Time to end the Tarmac Hell. 

 

John stared at Sherlock’s lips as they drew closer and closer.

\---“JOHN.”

\---“I KNOW.”

\---“I LOVE YOU.”


End file.
